


Here's to the Infinite Possible Ways to Love You

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Celegorm doesn't really but I will give them to him too, M/M, Tyelpe deserves good things and I will give them to him dammit, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 11:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15460383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: Celebrimbor considers, briefly, whether he might go and live on the Helcaraxë, which he has never seen but is given to understand is empty of people and full of bears. Maybe one of them might like to eat him. Maybe then he will never, ever have to think about his father asking his uncle to talk to him about "the way of things" in a tone that suggests he is clueless about them ever, ever again.(Or, Celegorm gives his nephew flirting lessons he doesn't need, Celebrimbor sasses his uncle, and everyone gets the love and validation they need for once.)





	Here's to the Infinite Possible Ways to Love You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consumptive_sphinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/gifts).



> For those of you who know me--I know this is hard to believe, but there is absolutely NO Curufin/Celegorm in this fic. And no, the one joke about it is not foreshadowing. Sometimes we get to have nice things.
> 
> Also, I owe a great debt as always to LiveOakWithMoss for the way I see this ship. My Tyelpe departed significantly from hers, but I still steal pretty liberally from her headcanons and characterizations always, so credit where credit is due.

Celebrimbor believes in luck.

He believes it, because he was born with the bad kind. A series of small disappointments and minor catastrophes that follow him through life. He suspects it might be hereditary, but he never asks; for reasons he's never understood, given his father's temperament, Curufin is an optimist. Expressing the belief that their circumstances will never improve would sound like disloyalty, so he doesn't.

It's not all bad, all the time. He's learned to take the good when he can, and not let his appetite be spoiled by the knowledge that soon enough it will be ruined by another streak of ill fortune.

Among the many mildly regrettable things fate has served up to him is the fact that Celebrimbor has a _type_. A combination of traits, if you will, that he finds irresistible: fair hair, leonine confidence, and _absolute unattainability_. (He mostly pretends not to notice the other common thread, which is at least a vague degree of consanguinity. Hardly his fault. Throw a stone and you're bound to hit a cousin of his.)

Finrod is a beautiful blaze of sunlight, one of the few things in this world that makes Celebrimbor believe in a future that ends well. Not for _him_ , of course, but for the Noldor more generally. Finrod makes gold out of mud, turns hostility into peaceful alliance. And, of course, Finrod will never look upon him with anything other than a vaguely paternal feeling. Besides, Curufin has made no secret of his distaste for his cousin and king—even if Celebrimbor could somehow move himself from the category of _little cousin_ to _potential suitor_ , his father would feel the betrayal deeply.

Finduilas would be a more acceptable choice, far enough removed from Curufin's disagreements with her father and uncle. She is a spirited, clever-tongued whip of a woman, a bit like Celebrimbor's mother was. She treats Celebrimbor as if he's worth listening to, and is beautiful in an entirely different way from her uncle, as square and tall and rooted in the earth as he is lithe and delicate and light-footed. But she is all for Gwindor, and Celebrimbor does not blame her one bit—Gwindor is kind, and strong, and not dogged by bad luck.

And then. Well, the last one is probably the worst combined.

He doesn’t feel badly over wanting Finrod, or Finduilas. No one could fault him for those attachments, however hopeless.

But when he thinks of his _uncle_ , well...the longing is mixed with a healthy dose of shame.

Celebrimbor remembers every time in his childhood that his uncle was kind, or patient, with a sick sort of churning in his stomach. He shouldn’t want someone who knew him in diapers, who had spoiled him with gifts of silken-eared puppies and sweetmeats when his father wasn’t looking, who had carried him on his shoulders and responded to Celebrimbor’s gleeful squeals of “giddy up” by saying something in horse and running full-tilt along the path. Tyelkormo had never been a _reliable_ adult, but he had been a constant presence in Celebrimbor’s childhood. And besides—second and third half-cousins are one thing. His father’s _brother_...that’s another thing entirely.

But Celegorm is brash, and reckless, and never closes his mouth on an opinion or saves back any part of himself. He is everything Curufin and Celebrimbor are not. How could you not love someone like that, who is never afraid to fail or be laughed at? And Celegorm is exceedingly fair, everyone says so; even more fair because of the wildness that clings to him, the glimpse of something untamed that Celebrimbor could never imitate in all the years of Arda. How could you not desire someone like that?

Well, tough luck, Tyelpe. He tries not to lean into it when Celegorm ruffles his hair and calls him _pup_. He tries not to stare too obviously when Celegorm finds yet another excuse to go about in nothing but his skin. He tries not to glow at how Celegorm always has time for him, even when Curufin is short and snappish and cannot be disturbed. He tries not to blush too hard or think very, very inappropriate thoughts when his uncle says suggestive things in his general direction.

(It’s not _personal_. Celegorm says suggestive things in everyone’s direction, even people he loathes. He doesn’t mean it, or at least, he only means it when he means it. And if anything, Celegorm is _less_ suggestive at Celebrimbor than he is with others. Because he’s his nephew, of course. 

And also possibly because Curufin would not tolerate it, but that’s only secondary. Probably.)

Celebrimbor tries not to do any of these things. Sometimes he succeeds.

He also tries not to choke on his breakfast when he overhears his father and uncle talking about him one morning.

“Pretty sure the boy thinks he’d be disowned if he tried to court someone, never mind having a fling. Sooner or later he’s going to break, being wound so tight.” That’s Celegorm’s voice; Celebrimbor feels his ears flushing.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Tyelperinquar is focused on his work. And besides, who here is worthy of his attentions?” His father, of course. “Just because _you_ can’t keep it in your breeches doesn’t mean everyone else is the same.”

“Just because you’re frigid doesn’t mean your son has to be.” Only Celegorm could speak to Curufin that way and not regret it.

He can almost hear his father rolling his eyes. “He hasn’t expressed the least bit of interest in gadding about like you do, thank goodness. Stop projecting.”

“Maybe that’s because he doesn’t know how to go about it, and doesn’t dare ask you.”

“If you corrupt my son, I assure you, you will not like the consequences.” That is bad enough, Celebrimbor being a grown adult and long past the age of being easily led, but what comes next is even more mortifying. His father’s voice softens just slightly, just enough, as he says, “But if you truly think he needs some education in...the way of things...I suppose you are better suited to it than I am.”

Celebrimbor considers, briefly, whether he might go and live on the Helcaraxë, which he has never seen but is given to understand is empty of people and full of bears. Maybe one of them might like to eat him. Maybe then he will never, ever have to think about his father asking his uncle to talk to him about _the way of things_ in a tone that suggests he is clueless about them ever, ever again.

(It somehow makes it worse that Celegorm _was_ the one to talk with him about _the way of things_ , way back when he was of the usual age to begin to be curious.)

He manages to escape before they realize he was listening, but it’s only a temporary reprieve.

A few days later, he’s nearly managed to forget the conversation, or at least push it down into the part of his brain where he forcibly submerges the things that make him want to become bear food. His father is absent, as he has been more and more frequently—Celebrimbor isn’t sure where he goes. At first he thought it was extra time in the forge, but he’s gone looking for him there a time or two and come up empty. Celegorm knows, no doubt, but he isn’t saying, and Celebrimbor knows better than to press.

At any rate, his father isn’t there, but Celegorm is, wrestling with Huan on the rug. Celebrimbor is reading a treatise on alternative methods of metal-plating— _trying_ to read a treatise on alternative methods of metal-plating—mostly watching his uncle through surreptitious glances and losing his place every time he does.

At length Celegorm grows bored of the game, or Huan does; Celegorm nearly catches him looking when he sits up, turning his full attention on Celebrimbor.

“Hey, pup.” Huan makes a sort of doggy questioning sound, and Celegorm glances at him briefly, scratching his ears. “You know I didn’t mean you.”

Celebrimbor pretends to have to drag himself from the text. “Uncle?”

Celegorm’s face is warm but serious in the firelight. “How are things? How are you?”

He has no idea what to say to that, or really what his uncle is asking. “I am well. How are you?”

Celegorm clicks his tongue softly. “I worry about you, difficult though that may be to believe. You know you’re allowed to have fun, don’t you? Even if your father wouldn’t know fun if it crawled under his tunic and bit him.”

“All right,” Celebrimbor says mildly, still not sure where this is leading. “Do you mean hunting? I’m happy to go with you, Uncle, though I need a few days’ warning so that I can arrange my work accordingly.”

“Are you? You should have said. I suspect you’d be a much pleasanter companion than your father.” Celegorm laughs. “But no, I didn’t mean hunting, or not _that_ sort of hunting at any rate.”

Faint alarm bells begin to sound in the back of Celebrimbor’s mind, though he isn’t yet certain why. “What sort did you have in mind?”

Celegorm grins too wide. Celebrimbor knows his uncle well enough to realize where he’s leading—the overheard conversation comes rushing back, and he begins to think longingly of miles of empty ice. And bears. 

“Oh, that. No, I’m not really…” He tries, and fails, to put together a coherent rejection of the idea. “There’s not—I don’t—there’s no one I feel that—”

“I’m not saying you need to find your soulmate. You _can_ have fun with someone casually. You know that, Tyelpe, don’t you?” Mandos take him, Celegorm is trying to be reassuring. 

“ _Yes_ , Uncle,” he says quickly, a little forcefully, before he can be subjected to any more of Celegorm trying to be delicate. “I understand the concept of casual sex. But my…” he thinks of saying _my work is more important right now_ , and realizes that argument is entirely unlikely to convince Celegorm. “There’s no one who interests me that way just at present.”

“Just at present?” Celegorm asks, still careful, and Celebrimbor feels both fond and deeply exasperated.

“I’m not an ascetic. I just…” he casts around for an explanation that is not _I always want people I can’t have._ “I’m in the forge most of the time, you know that. I don’t meet that many people. None that have taken my interest yet, that’s all.”

“ _That_ we can fix,” Celegorm says brightly, and he doesn’t mean to but Celebrimbor _groans_ at the thought of being forcibly introduced to a large variety of the sort of people either his uncle or his father will find acceptable. Celegorm laughs again. “Hear me out, now, I won’t drag you to my haunts and prance you around like a mother trying to marry off her only child. But I could give you some tips about how to meet the sort of people you _will_ get on with, how to approach them and get to know them a little more quickly.”

“I’m sure I don’t need—” Celebrimbor starts, defensively, then reconsiders. He _doesn’t_ need it, of course, his problem has never actually been not knowing enough people or how to talk to them. But if Celegorm doesn’t intend to introduce him to people, that means, possibly, that this would be an excuse to spend more time with him, just the two of them. He’s a little disappointed in himself—he should be better at keeping himself in check—but he agrees anyway. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. I’m not like you, though, Uncle. I can’t promise I’ll use any of your advice.”

Celegorm grins at him, that wicked grin that has swayed far more hearts than just Celebrimbor’s. “Nobody ever thinks they need what I’m selling. You’ll see, Tyelpe.”

~

It turns out to be worse, and better, than Celebrimbor is expecting.

“Try your best line on me,” Celegorm says, one afternoon when they have eaten the midday meal together, catching Celebrimbor before he returns to the forge. “Come on.”

He demurs, of course. It was always an exercise in acute discomfort when his childhood tutors wanted him to learn by role-playing, and doing the same with Celegorm is no less awkward.

He isn’t really surprised that Celegorm won’t take no for an answer. His tutors never would either.

Celebrimbor does his best to reframe the thing in his mind. An excuse to try and flirt with his uncle, consequence-free? That makes it a little more palatable. He can be genuine, and Celegorm will believe it’s all an exercise. 

“It depends on the person, really? I wouldn’t say the same thing to everyone.” Of course, the kind of line that he _knows_ would work on Celegorm is not at all the kind of line Celebrimbor could believably use. He’ll do his best, though. He puts on his warm smile, the one that usually makes people smile back. “You must be a keen shot, with such fine arms as that. Hunter or soldier?”

Celegorm bites down on a smile. “Maybe I’m just a blacksmith.”

“And maybe I’m just a scribe,” Celebrimbor says back, easily, folding his arms in a way that make his forge-sculpted muscles show to better advantage. Celegorm laughs, pleased.

“Maybe we are kin after all, pup. Not bad.” He gives Celebrimbor a considering, amused look. “Did you prepare that ahead of time?”

“Uncle!” Celebrimbor sighs, though he is still smiling, warmed by Celegorm’s attention. “I’m really not a helpless innocent. I know you’re better at this than I am, but if you mean to teach me something new, we could skip past the beginner lessons.”

“Oho, so he wants the advanced courses! Careful what you ask for, pup. You might not be as advanced as you think you are.”

Celebrimbor can’t help flushing at that, imagining a variety of unlikely things that _advanced courses_ might comprise. He’s still safe, of course—Celegorm reads it as simple embarrassment at being teased. He’s always been susceptible to flustering at Celegorm’s teasing, though this is the first time he’s had occasion to feel grateful for that fact. 

“Well...maybe just the intermediate level,” he says at last, to make Celegorm laugh again.

~

He seems to have become Celegorm’s new pet project.

His uncle has taken to haunting the forge when Curufin is busy elsewhere (because of course, were he present, he’d bark about Celegorm distracting the both of them and send him packing). He drapes himself over the workbench in a way that makes it look like a divan, and keeps up a steady stream of—advice is probably the best word for it—while Celebrimbor works.

“You don’t have to be so nice all the time. People like a bit of wickedness.”

Celebrimbor pours silver carefully into his mold, smiling faintly. “I _am_ nice, Uncle. It doesn’t have a shut-off valve.”

Celegorm snorts. “If you’re so _nice_ , why do you keep sassing your uncle?”

Celebrimbor bites the inside of his cheek to keep the smile from growing. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Please, do go on.”

“Ungrateful child,” Celegorm says fondly. “I’m trying to help you by explaining that _nice_ might as well be spelled _boring_. I’m not saying you should be like your father, of course—to be honest, I’ve still never worked out quite how ‘caustic’ manages to work for him, but I doubt anyone else could get the same results. It’s a wonder he doesn’t find himself engaged to duel a few times a week.”

Celebrimbor pointedly doesn’t mention how frequently Celegorm himself starts fights—since he’s far less skilled than Curufin at talking his way _out_ of them once he’s said something provoking. Celebrimbor doesn’t comment at all, in fact. There’s something pleasant about focusing on his work with Celegorm’s warm, familiar voice rumbling on in the background; he lets the words wash over him, paying no particular attention to their meaning, though he makes sounds of interest or agreement when Celegorm pauses.

“Mm-hmm,” he says at once such juncture, making a note on a sketch.

“Good, then recite them back to me.”

Celebrimbor’s head snaps up, like a guilty child caught napping by his tutor. The smug, pointed expression on Celegorm’s face says it was a trap, and Celebrimbor walked right into it.

It makes him feel a little less _nice_ and a little more wicked. “Sorry, Uncle,” he says, sweetly apologetic. “You used to tell me bedtime stories. I can’t help it if I start to drift off at the sound of your voice.”

“You’re not too old for me to box your ears, pup,” Celegorm growls, and only subsides when Celebrimbor makes nice with a suggestion that he can’t absorb any more knowledge until he tries the ideas he’s already learned. This will almost certainly prove to be a mistake, but it puts the question off for a little longer, and he has work to finish.

When he wraps up for the day and banks the forge, it comes back to bite him.

Celegorm left sometime in the late afternoon to entertain himself elsewhere, but he manages to turn up just as Celebrimbor is finishing. “Ready, pup?”

Celebrimbor blinks at him. He’d been thinking of taking to bed early with a glass of wine and a book of poetry borrowed from the King; he tries to remember what it is, exactly, that Celegorm wants him to be ready for, but comes up empty. “For…?”

“Making use of your education.”

Celebrimbor groans inwardly, but he did bring it upon himself. “What did you have in mind? I thought you weren’t going to drag me to your haunts?”

Celegorm grins. “I’m not. I found out where the gemcutters drink.” Before Celebrimbor can protest, he says, “Don’t argue, Tyelpe, you can’t stay in the realm of theory forever. They’re interested in the same things you are, adjacent to your field but not in it—so not just the same old people you see day in and day out—and I have it on good authority that plenty of them are susceptible to a charming smile after a pint or two.”

This time Celebrimbor doesn’t try to hold back his groan. “Uncle, you _didn’t_.”

Celegorm is unapologetic, grinning still. “Oh, don’t look so horrified, I’m fairly sure you and I have very different tastes. There’s unlikely to be any overlap.”

“This is a _terrible_ idea,” Celebrimbor says, more to himself than to Celegorm.

“It’s a _wonderful_ idea.” Celegorm gives him a playful glare. “If you can be half as much a smart arse with them as you are with your old uncle, they’ll be eating out of your hand. Young people enjoy that sort of thing.”

“As if you don’t,” Celebrimbor mutters, a little peevishly.

“See? Just like that. But save it for your drinking companions.”

Celebrimbor sighs, and reminds himself sternly that he signed up for this. “Yes, Uncle.”

~

“What are you doing back here?” Celegorm is in the sitting-room when Celebrimbor comes back, lazing by the fire with his head propped against Huan’s side. “Things were going along so well when I left!”

“Why are you in my sitting room?” Celebrimbor asks, instead of answering. Celegorm won’t like the reason he’s back early, and he’s too tired to deal with Celegorm’s righteous fury on top of the sting of rejection he’s already contending with.

“Someone put out the fire and damped all the wood in mine.” Not the first time some sort of petty action has been taken against one of them, though Celebrimbor finds it strange—usually Celegorm is more...proactive in dealing with it. “I’ll find out who and make them sorry in the morning,” his uncle adds, by way of explanation. “I wanted a fire, and you know I can’t pick the locks on Curvo’s doors. Now, what happened?”

Given the incident with the wood, Celebrimbor is even less inclined to tell him, but it doesn’t seem he can get out of it. “The usual.” _My ever-present bad luck,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say. “It was all fine until he realized whose grandson I was.”

All the good humor leaves Celegorm’s expression in a flash. Celebrimbor is suddenly reminded why other people, people who did not grow up with him, find his uncle terrifying.

“Don’t,” he says wearily, before Celegorm can say or do anything. “Don’t do...whatever it is you’re thinking of. It’s no surprise we still aren’t best loved here.” He doesn’t want to think of how such sentiment—either the kind expressed outright, or more subtly, like the mischief with the firewood—seems to be waxing, not waning. “Father says there’s no sense trying to reason with small minds.”

“I wasn’t going to _reason_ with him,” Celegorm says, but at least he hasn’t risen from his place near the hearth yet. “Also, your father is a fine hypocrite, given the way he retaliates any time he overhears an insult to our line.”

“Well, Father isn’t here, so we’ll have to make due with his words and not his actions.” He knows he’s championing a lost cause, but he tries anyway. “Please, Uncle, let’s not do this tonight. I just want to rest. We can cover techniques for eviscerating a failed seduction target for insulting my bloodline in the morning.”

To his surprise, something in Celegorm’s face softens; he becomes merely Celebrimbor’s uncle again, not the vicious feral Feanorion people accuse him of being. “An important part of the curriculum,” he concedes, with a faint smile. “Go to bed, Tyelpe.”

He makes no move to rise as Celebrimbor heads to his bedroom. Perhaps he intends to sleep there, on the hearth rug; it would hardly be the oddest thing Celegorm has done.

~

It’s easy, so easy, to get used to a new normal.

Celebrimbor doesn’t use needing to put his knowledge into practice as an excuse again. Celegorm doesn’t make him; he seems oddly content to hang around giving him advice, despite the fact that Celebrimbor’s habits have not changed at all (with the exception of the one disastrous evening). Celebrimbor wonders vaguely whether he will eventually run out of advice to dispense, but happily, there are no signs that the well will run dry any time soon.

In a few short weeks, it feels as if Celegorm’s frequent presence is a given.

Curufin gives his brother warning looks across the table sometimes, and Celebrimbor can guess that he repeats the comment about not corrupting his son when they are in private; but Celebrimbor’s work has not suffered, and Celegorm has made a genuine effort to keep his instruction on the tame side, so Curufin doesn’t actually interfere.

He doesn’t know his son was already corrupted, and there’s no one to blame for that except Celebrimbor himself.

Of course, Celebrimbor is aware his luck won’t let it last forever, one way or another. He enjoys his uncle’s company and attention while he can. He shouldn’t be surprised when, some weeks on, Celegorm disappears into the woods without so much as a word. Honestly, he _isn’t_ surprised, but he is disappointed. He shouldn’t be that either.

Haring off to the woods with no warning is fairly usual for Celegorm. But Celebrimbor has grown so used to having him by, it’s more than a little bitter when he’s suddenly alone with his work and his thoughts again. He’d also half-hoped to be invited along, the next time Celegorm decided to vanish into the forest—he really should have known better.

He might get a bit more done without his uncle hanging around, but somehow he still feels unsatisfied with the pieces he’s working on, as if he can’t do anything quite right anymore without an audience. Days pass, and nothing comes together the way it looked in his head—though he can’t explain why, to the other smiths, when they see him melting down a piece that looks perfectly rendered to their eyes.

Celegorm is gone for a week—such an embarrassingly short time for Celebrimbor to sulk over that he’s already decided to end this once once Celegorm returns, to tell his uncle he’s learned enough. Celebrimbor clearly can’t trust himself not to grow attached to this arrangement, which was never intended to be permanent. It will be better to end it now and get a head start on getting over it.

Still, he imagines over and over how he’s going to break the news, and that’s its own sort of problem. Is he really so pathetic that he can’t tell his uncle he doesn’t want flirting lessons anymore? When, honestly, he never needed or truly wanted them in the first place, beyond an excuse to monopolize said uncle?

He derails that thought before too long, because his own internal critic’s voice sounds terribly similar to his father. And if nothing else, he could do without hearing his father scold him about mooning over Celegorm, even in the privacy of his own head.

When Celegorm does return, it’s in the dead of night, and only by pure accident that Celebrimbor is awake to greet him.

Sometimes Celebrimbor dreams of his mother. Not nightmares, more like...brief interludes where he forgets that she is dead. As long as he doesn’t remember, they can spend time together, happily talking of the past; but as soon as he recalls that she is not alive, she always kisses him goodbye on both his cheeks and tells him that she’s overstayed her welcome. They aren’t bad dreams, but they leave him with a vague melancholy, and the feeling that she could have stayed, if only he hadn’t remembered the truth. He’s found the best thing to do afterwards is to go walking—even if the dark corridors of Nargothrond are empty, the trappings of what will be a busy city again come morning make him feel less lonely.

He’s nearly circled back around to his own door when he runs into Celegorm—almost literally, since neither of them expect to encounter anyone else in the halls this late.

Celegorm is beautiful, and terrible. He is marked with strange paints, and what is probably blood; his hair is wild, and he is wearing his wolfskin cloak. He looks exhausted, but it is the keen-edged kind of exhaustion that makes a beast more dangerous rather than less. He should reek of blood, Celebrimbor thinks, but instead he only smells of mud and pine and river water.

Celebrimbor stares open-mouthed, unable to collect himself.

Celegorm sighs, even as Huan—with more blood on his muzzle than Celebrimbor likes to think about—wags his tail in enthusiastic greeting and puts his head on Celebrimbor’s shoulder to demand petting. “Didn’t mean to scare you, pup,” Celegorm says, and his voice is hoarse—with tiredness or from rough use, Celebrimbor can’t tell.

“You don’t frighten me, Uncle,” Celebrimbor says, because he is sleepy and unguarded and it’s the truth. And then, looking him over once more, “You’re not—this wasn’t a normal hunting trip, then.”

Celegorm’s gaze sharpens; he doesn’t answer, but he does unlock his door, holding it open in a way that implies an invitation. Celebrimbor takes it, because he is curious, and not quite awake enough to behave himself.

“You know I do strange things in the woods,” Celegorm says dismissively, once the door is shut. “No need to fret about it.” He is trying for a joking tone, but his tiredness leaves him bare, the smile missing from his eyes.

Something occurs to Celebrimbor. “You were honoring the Huntsman.”

Celegorm’s expression closes off further, his smile is mere bared teeth now—though he keeps his tone light for Celebrimbor’s sake. “Going to tell your father on me?”

Celebrimbor blinks, momentarily thrown. “Of course not, Uncle. Why would I?” Curufin would be furious, true enough, but it’s never been any secret to Celebrimbor that his uncle still honors one of the otherwise-forsaken Valar. “I know it’s important to you. I just wished to understand.”

Celegorm studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs again, the tension draining out of him. “Of course you did,” he says, but there’s no mockery in it, only fondness. “All right. Come, sit, if you’re not off to bed.”

Celebrimbor does; Huan comes and leans against him, whuffing happily. Celegorm steps out for a moment, and there is a sound of running water; he returns with a steaming towel, beginning to scrub away some of the paint and grime that mark him as he sits down opposite.

He doesn’t say any more about where he’s been, as Celebrimbor thought he might. Instead he tries to make teasing small talk. “I hope you haven’t been idle while I was gone, letting all that knowledge go to waste.”

It’s as good an opening as Celebrimbor will get to end the arrangement. He should take it. Politely bow out.

He’s sleepy, and his tongue is uncooperative, and maybe the night’s melancholy is a little deeper than he realized. “I don’t know why you bother with me, Uncle. I can say all the right words, but I don’t have much to recommend me, in the end.”

It’s pathetic. His father would tell him, sharply, to stop fishing for compliments, that of course he is better than any of these fools and they should count themselves lucky to have his attention. Celegorm will probably be a little gentler, but the message will be essentially the same—how could you ever doubt what a member of our family deserves? Still, he needs to hear it, needs Celegorm to argue the point so that at least he can feel foolish for his doubt instead of feeling foolish for his desire.

“ _Really_ , Tyelpe?” The sudden snap of Celegorm’s words is like a knife to his breast. Of course—he’s forgotten about his ill luck. The reprieve was nice, very nice; but it’s run out, and Celegorm has no more patience with his need for validation than his father would. He can’t meet his uncle’s eyes, so he stares down at his hands as Celegorm goes on. “It’s frankly infuriating how enticing you are. It’s a wonder to me that any of the smiths get anything done with you around, and a further wonder they aren’t pounding down your door after the workday is over.”

He dares to look up, not quite believing what he’s heard. 

Celegorm looks deeply displeased, the lines of exhaustion drawing his frown more deeply still, and does not seem to realize what he’s just implied. “It’s a damn _waste_ , Tyelpe, for you to go about believing otherwise. What have I been teaching you for, if I didn’t think you could have _literally_ _anyone you wanted_ once you knew how to ask?”

There is dead silence between them. Celebrimbor tries to process the words that have just been said— _enticing, infuriating, anyone you wanted_ —the words Celegorm still seems too tired to realize have revealed more than intended. There’s a painful knot of confused hope and hurt behind Celebrimbor's ribs, and he doesn’t know how to untie it, not yet.

Celegorm exhales in a short, sharp burst then, breaking the silence of the room. His voice is nearly apologetic, though, when he speaks. “Go to bed, pup, we’re neither one of us at our best. One failure doesn’t mean nobody wants you. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

“All right, Uncle,” Celebrimbor says softly, not trusting himself to say anything else. He rises and lets himself out; but just for a moment, he leans against the outside of the door, pressing his forehead to the wood, and lets a single word echo through him.

_Enticing._

~

Celebrimbor wakes slowly. It takes him a little time to remember why he feels as though he’s received some joyous news, even after his bittersweet dream, but then—

He _knows_.

He isn’t sure whether Celegorm will realize, in the light of day, what he’s let slip. Either way, Celebrimbor can seize an opportunity when he finds one, and this is one he never hoped to be given.

Despite Celegorm’s promise, they don’t talk in the morning—likely because Celegorm sleeps through it, and lunch as well. Celebrimbor isn’t surprised. He suspects that rites for the Huntsman are physically taxing in general—and for his uncle, probably emotionally taxing as well.

He can wait.

He takes his time in the forge, working at a more leisurely pace than usual, but far more satisfied with what he does manage to produce. He eats lunch with his father; they discuss their current projects, and Curufin seems especially interested in the alloys he’s been experimenting with. It’s a good day, a calm day.

Normally Celebrimbor would hold his breath on a day like this, begging his ill luck to hold off, just a little longer. But right now—right now, he feels as if he can fight it into submission, wrestle it down and mold it into a new shape, a better shape. Not good luck, maybe (who could call pursuing one’s uncle _good_ luck, whatever the outcome?) but something he can, at least, live with. Better than live with.

When Celegorm comes to supper, he looks far less raw and hollow; he’s taken time to wash, and the shadows beneath his eyes are faint if not entirely gone. He eats like a man denied food for weeks, which only reinforces Celebrimbor’s belief that whatever he put himself through in service of the Vala burned through all of his reserves; but afterwards, he is entirely himself again, jovial and wicked and self-satisfied.

Celebrimbor bides his time. These days, his father can almost be counted upon to vanish in the evenings; and, like clockwork, Curufin slips away somewhere when the last of the supper wine is drunk.

“Uncle,” says Celebrimbor lightly, once he is gone and Celegorm is spoiling Huan with the remnants of their meal. “I’m sorry for my outburst last night. I’ve thought about what you said, and I think I’m ready for advanced lessons. All jesting aside.”

Celegorm gives him a heart-stopping smile. “Already forgotten, pup. Literally. What did we talk about? I remember you were upset, a bit. Was it that gemcutter? Never mind, he’s not worth half your measure.”

Well, that’s that question answered. For the briefest moment Celebrimbor gets cold feet, nearly reconsiders his whole plan. “Yes, something like that. You said one failure doesn’t mean that nobody wants me.”

“I vaguely recall saying that. A piece of wisdom you should keep close to your heart.” Celegorm’s eyes twinkle, a dangerous expression that always gives Celebrimbor an emotion somewhere between giddy butterflies and deep dread. “Well, if you think you’re ready for the advanced lessons, I suppose I must oblige.”

Never mind the cold feet. The plan is _definitely_ back on.

Celebrimbor drains the last dregs of wine from his cup, seeking courage. “I’m glad you’re willing. Because I’m hoping you can tell me this: how would you go about pursuing someone when there are…” Uncle Maglor would have spotted a deliberate dramatic pause from a mile away, but he’s hoping he can slip it by Celegorm, “... _obstacles_?”

Celegorm’s eyes light with interest. “Oh, we have someone specific in mind. What sort of obstacles?”

“No, no, just...in general. Say it was someone you couldn’t go after openly. Maybe someone who was already taken, or otherwise unsuitable in some way.” Celebrimbor smiles as if he’s sharing a secret. “Or else maybe someone one’s...father wouldn’t approve of. Someone whose interest you would need to gauge very, very carefully before making a true move.”

Celegorm doesn’t buy the ‘in general’ for one second, but he wasn’t meant to. “Ah, of course. I suppose subterfuge and adultery and disappointing one’s parents are definitely advanced topics.” His wolfish grin erases any criticism that might have been implied by the words. Knowing Celegorm, he’s more likely to be feeling pride than disapproval. “Well, there are ways to read it on them, if you’re around the person often.”

“Tell me,” Celebrimbor says intently, drawing his chair closer.

“Leaning in, of course, though I hope you’ve picked that one up for yourself. Open body language—uncrossed arms, spread knees.” Not that Celebrimbor can draw much from that—he’s not sure he’s ever seen his uncle sit with his knees together!—but Celegorm _is_ sitting straighter than normal, slightly forward rather than draped backwards. Not tense, but leaning towards Celebrimbor. “Parted lips, slightly raised eyebrows.” He demonstrates that, only a slight change of expression, but somehow it makes him look raptly interested.

Celebrimbor mirrors it, as subtly as he can manage.

“Adjusting their jewelry, smoothing their hair—any sort of preening,” Celegorm goes on, and Celebrimbor thinks of last night, his uncle wiping the paint from his face, finger-combing his wild hair despite it being a lost cause. “Mirroring the other person’s body language.”

For a moment he thinks he’s being called out, but it seems Celegorm is only running through his mental list. Time for a little less subtlety, then; Celebrimbor rearranges himself to match his uncle’s posture almost exactly, though he leans in a little further than Celegorm is currently doing. He licks his lower lip—just the faintest flicker, no need to overdo it.

“I suppose,” Celegorm says, watching him with an amused expression, “you’re doing that to get a notion of what it looks like, or what your own body language gives away.”

“Hmm?” Celebrimbor runs distracted fingers over the brooch at his throat, straightens it slightly. “Doing what?”

Celegorm’s stare is sharp as his skinning knife. He takes a long look, as if cataloguing each and every way in which Celebrimbor is—intentionally and unintentionally—showing his hand. Something complicated flickers across his face, and his expression goes faraway for a moment, as if recalling something lost; his lips form the shape of a word, and Celebrimbor’s heart beats faster when he recognizes it. _Enticing_.

Celegorm’s eyes snap back up, meeting Celebrimbor’s, holding them. There’s a slight wry quirk at the corners of his mouth, but his tone is a warning. “As much time as you spend in the forge, boy, I thought you knew better than to play with fire.”

Celebrimbor doesn’t look away, though he smiles warmly. “As much time as I spend in the forge, I know how to _handle_ fire, Uncle.”

Celegorm draws in a breath through his teeth. His gaze is more searching now, as if checking his own conclusions. Or perhaps challenging Celebrimbor’s: _you had better be certain you want what you’re asking for._ “Have I mentioned you’re not too old for me to put you over my knee?” he says at last, and it’s an easy out—all Celebrimbor has to do is apologize, play it as a joke, and they will both laugh it off.

He doesn’t. He quirks an eyebrow and grins a grin he could not have learned from anyone else but Celegorm, and says, “Not really the way I get off, Uncle, but if it helps you…”

Celegorm rises to his feet, looming over him in a way that’s meant to be slightly intimidating. His expression is one of challenge; if Celebrimbor did not know him so very well, he would mistake it for anger. “Your father would skin the both of us.”

Celebrimbor has his father’s height—he could stand too, remind his uncle that he is taller and every bit as strong, but that wouldn’t answer the real challenge. He stays sitting, but does not shrink away, looking up into Celegorm’s face. _I know who has the power here, Uncle, but you don’t frighten me. My eyes are wide open._ “You keep plenty of secrets from my father. So do I, it turns out.”

Celegorm shakes his head slowly and huffs in the back of his throat, not quite a laugh. Then he extends his hand. Celebrimbor takes it, and finds himself pulled gently to his feet; Celegorm doesn’t step back when he rises, leaving them standing very, very close together.

There’s a beat of charged silence. No one can say Celegorm hasn’t given him every chance to turn back.

He lifts a hand to his uncle’s chest, and that is enough to dispel any remaining hesitation. Celegorm reaches up and grabs him by the back of the neck, pulling him down till their lips meet, and—oh. _Oh_ , he is uncommonly good at that, or else just the regular sort of good and Celebrimbor has been wound up over him so long—it doesn’t matter which, the _point_ is that Celebrimbor finds himself gripping Celegorm’s tunic for dear life, his fists balled up in the fabric, and Celegorm has him backed up against the table and it’s _all_ good, whatever the reason.

When he breaks for breath, it’s like coming up from deep water, dazed and disoriented by the setting he’s found himself in. “Not here,” he manages, “Father could come back at any time—”

Celegorm laughs, pausing briefly where he’s nipping gently at Celebrimbor’s jawline. “Curvo won’t be back tonight, but we can go somewhere more comfortable, if you like.”

Celebrimbor reaches back, using the table to right himself somewhat and disengage slightly. “What do you mean? Where does he go, all the time?”

“Believe me, you’re happier not knowing.” Celegorm rolls his eyes. “Let us just say that your father has his own unwise dalliances.”

That is...unexpected information. Celebrimbor wants to give it the consideration it requires, but his uncle can be _very_ distracting when he so desires, and he obviously _so desires_ at the moment.

“You’ve been chasing me this long, pup,” he murmurs against Celebrimbor’s ear, before going up on tiptoe to bite the point. “Don't go haring off on another scent now.”

“Sorry,” Celebrimbor says, a little breathless, letting himself be brought back into the moment. “But still, can we at least—?” He waves in the vague direction of the door.

“Not if you just keep standing there looking tempting.” Celegorm draws back to let him pass, then swats him on the rear to get him moving, in a way that reminds Celebrimbor just a little too much of his childhood.

He goes nonetheless.

~

“Come here, Tyelpe.” Celegorm sprawls naked and glorious across Celebrimbor’s bed, arms folded behind his head; Celebrimbor, still in his long linen shirt, puts a knee on the coverlet and hesitates.

“Celebrimbor, please. When we’re...like this.”

Celegorm cocks an eyebrow. “You’re too good for your mother-tongue now?”

Celebrimbor flushes. “It’s not that. It—reminds me too much of being a child with you. You wouldn’t like it if I called you Uncle in bed, would you?”

The corner of Celegorm’s mouth quirks. He says nothing, only stares, clearly enjoying the way Celebrimbor’s ears pink up.

“Eru, of course you would. I should have seen that coming, I suppose.” Celebrimbor sighs, fond and exasperated. “I’ve always known you were a deviant of the highest order. Fine, call me pup if you like, but if you’re going to use my name give me the Sindarin one.”

“Come _here_ , pup,” Celegorm says, enunciating each of the words, definite. Celebrimbor puts the other knee on the bed, crawls up to him, does not even protest when Celegorm catches him by the shirt and drags him upwards.

“Uncle,” Celebrimbor breathes, experimentally.

Celegorm growls, slides a hand up the back of his thigh to push up the shirt until he can grab his bare arse and pull him down flush. “I don’t think I know this _Celebrimbor_ , beyond that he is an appalling tease.” He grins up at Celebrimbor, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “All this time I was giving you the benefit of the doubt—he doesn’t know what he’s doing, surely, not our _Tyelpe_ —and here I find out you’ve meant every bit of it, you wicked creature.” 

“Not _all_ of it,” Celebrimbor protests, flushing again, though he’s laughing too. “I never imagined you would—”

“Thinking I wouldn’t catch on is _not_ the same as doing it by accident.” Celegorm yanks the shirt up and over, making Celebrimbor sit back to free his arms and let it come over his head. Celegorm leaves off his teasing once that is accomplished; his expression goes predator-hungry, a look Celebrimbor has only gotten to see very rarely before, and never directed at himself.

Truth be told, he feels a bit of that ravenous hunger too. His uncle is fair and _strong_ , built far more heavily than the people Celebrimbor has made it this far with in the past—he tends to get on easiest with scholars and thinkers, usually. He’s never really had the opportunity before to appreciate musculature like Celegorm’s in such...intimate detail.

He stays sitting back, knees to either side of Celegorm’s thighs, and reaches out to trace the hard-cut lines of him. Celegorm lets him, though he quirks an eyebrow, his amused expression suggesting that he’s only humoring his nephew in this slow strange exploration. Celebrimbor’s hands move from the thickness of his waist up over his hard chest, then smooth outwards across his biceps.

He hesitates a moment, nearing Celegorm’s wrists, and starts to ask, “May I—”

Celegorm cuts him off, giving a little canine smile. “If we were still on the intermediate lessons, I'd agree that it's a fine idea to get your partner's permission. But since this is an advanced course, I want you to show me what you've got. I’m not leading you to it.”

That’s as clear a _yes_ as he could ask for, at least with his uncle. Celebrimbor leans forward a little, putting weight on Celegorm’s wrists to pin them, and Celegorm’s eyes light.

“Oh, you mean to hold me, do you, pup?”

Celebrimbor braces himself, expecting him to fight it, but he doesn’t—not immediately.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Not the faintest clue,” Celebrimbor says warmly, honestly. “I’ve never been with anyone who might be able to break my hold, so it didn’t seem much fun to try it.”

Celegorm laughs from somewhere deep in his chest at that. “So many gaps in your education,” he says, then surges up, while Celebrimbor is still distracted with the way that laugh turns loose something hot and shivery in his low belly.

Celebrimbor has the advantage of position, and a lesser advantage of size—but Celegorm is older and wilier and has no doubt had far more practical experience in wrestling, making him slippery and difficult to hold. That, and when Celebrimbor _does_ manage to get a more solid grip on him, he’s absolutely willing to use other kinds of tactics. He arches up and shifts in delicious ways that do nothing to free him, but do quite a lot to persuade Celebrimbor that he should voluntarily allow Celegorm a bit more room to work. (The fact that Celebrimbor knows better doesn’t ever actually dissuade him from doing so.)

It ends several minutes later with Celegorm on top, both of them breathing hard, and Celebrimbor absolutely willing to cede the victory (at least for today). He relaxes back into the bedding, grins up at Celegorm. “Shall I cry uncle?”

Celegorm groans, and laughs. “If you weren’t so cursed fair, I’d throw you out of bed for that.”

“You could try. It’s my bed, though.” Even now, Celebrimbor feels a little flutter of giddy pleasure at his uncle’s admiration.

“Enough from you.” Celegorm grins and presses two fingers against Celebrimbor’s lower lip. “Put that smart mouth to some better use.”

Celebrimbor parts his lips, letting Celegorm’s fingers slide between them, giving him a gaze that he knows is intense and _hopes_ is smoldering as he wraps his tongue around them. Judging by how Celegorm watches him and swears softly under his breath, he’s hit the mark.

Celegorm thrusts the fingers gently, drawing them out a little and sliding back in, and Celebrimbor gives them his entire focus. He closes his eyes, tilting his head just slightly as Celegorm twists his hand. “That’s it, boy,” Celegorm breathes. “By the Horn, I hope you take it this well in other ways.”

He slides his fingers free at last and rises up on his knees over Celebrimbor. Until today, Celebrimbor would have said with certainty that he could predict his uncle easily, but he has already been surprised many times over; he’s surprised all over again when, kneeling above him, Celegorm presses both spit-slicked fingers inside himself.

“What was that about me taking it?” Celebrimbor tries to say, but his voice comes out rough and distracted.

Celegorm makes a soft grunt of pleasure at his own touch, then gives Celebrimbor a lazy, sideways grin. “Delayed gratification. _There’s_ an advanced lesson for you.”

Celebrimbor nearly asks permission to—but no, that’s not the way to do this. He grabs Celegorm’s hips, possessive, nearly unbalancing him. Celegorm hisses encouragingly, then shuffles forward a bit into his grip. He draws his fingers out; spits in his palm once, twice, and reaches down to wrap his wet hand around Celebrimbor’s cock.

Celebrimbor barely has time to think, _oh Valar, he’s going to—_ before Celegorm is lowering himself, easing down until Celebrimbor is nearly breaching him.

“Uncle,” Celebrimbor gasps, his hands tightening briefly, holding him in place. “Wait—I have oil—”

“As if I require it,” Celegorm laughs, and then, _oh Valar,_ he is sliding down, sinfully tight around Celebrimbor’s cock, and it is the most unbelievably provocative thing Celebrimbor has ever experienced.

He can’t help himself. He tightens his grip again, thrusting up as Celegorm moves down on him; he bottoms out with a satisfying impact, and Celegorm cries out.

“ _Yes_ , Tyelpe, _just_ like that—sorry, _Celebrimbor_. Do that again.”

His Sindarin name—his _adult_ name—is fire in his uncle’s mouth, fire that burns through him and leaves him helpless to do anything but obey the command. He thrusts up hard, directing the rhythm, feet braced against the bed and strong arms holding Celegorm in place. Celegorm swears colorfully through it—no surprise there, at least—folding forward after a bit to brace both palms flat against Celebrimbor’s chest and give himself more leverage. Celebrimbor lets him, loosening his grip on Celegorm’s hips just a little.

“ _Fuck_ , boy. If I’d known you were this eager for it—”

“ _Hush_ ,” Celebrimbor says, more gently than he means to, but it works. Celegorm’s mouth snaps shut, and his eyes gleam.

Celebrimbor can take a hint. He keeps up the movement of his hips, but keeps his tone soft, letting all the affection—the _admiration_ —he has for Celegorm bleed through. “You wanted to see what I can do, Uncle, so let me show you.” He slows for a moment, despite Celegorm’s sound of protest; then he sits up a bit, propping himself on one elbow so that he might wrap the other arm around Celegorm’s low back.

He uses that position to roll them over, tugging Celegorm to the side as he pushes off with his elbow, letting gravity and momentum carry them until he is above his uncle and can fold him nearly in half.

“You devil,” gasps Celegorm as he begins moving again, though he barely seems aware of what he is saying now. “Tyel—Celebrimbor, fuck, _fuck_ , there—”

“ _Hush_ ,” Celebrimbor says again, barely a whisper, and kisses him silent. Celegorm shakes beneath him, clutches hard at his back and then lower, leaving nail marks as evidence of his demands— _more_ and _harder_ and _deeper._ Celebrimbor does his best to oblige, though he does pause more than once to add more spit. He can do that much, if Celegorm won’t let him be so gentle as to use the oil.

Of course he knew that Celegorm would be good in bed—all the evidence pointed to that conclusion—but he couldn’t have guessed how well they would _match_. How easy it is to please one another, how well their natural inclinations align with the other’s desires. He hadn’t expected to have Celegorm beneath him, certainly not this first time, but he’s finding it to be exactly what he wanted and didn’t know to ask.

He wants to hold out, wants to feel Celegorm come around him, but he can’t quite manage. When he tries to slow his pace Celegorm claws at him, hissing oaths until he laughs and speeds up again; and then Celegorm pulls him down and begins whispering encouragement against his ear, spoiling any tiny remaining chance he had of lasting. “Yes, pup, just like that, _fuck_ but you have a knack for it—the way you move—by Mandos, I can ride you like a war charger, fine strong thing that you are—ah, _there_ , yes, fuck, _nephew_ —”

It will be a faint source of embarrassment later that that’s the word Celebrimbor comes on, but for now everything is hot and messy and wonderful and he has no head for such niceties. Celegorm keeps talking, but his tone changes slightly, gentling him through it, wrapping him in words just as he’s wrapped in Celegorm’s arms and legs and body. 

Celebrimbor pulls out soon after, too sensitive to remain, but he doesn’t leave Celegorm wanting. He presses three fingers into him without pause, and uses them to fuck him with less force but more precision, leaving his uncle panting and flushed and swearing all over again. It is a revelation of sorts when he comes, spilling hot over himself and Celebrimbor’s other fist where he’s taken up stroking him in matching rhythm—Celebrimbor has never seen his uncle so unguarded, though he did not realize it until just this moment.

“ _Fuck_ , boy,” Celegorm growls, when he can speak again. “You had us all believing you were innocent.”

Celebrimbor creeps closer, having withdrawn a little after cleaning them both up. He wants to be held, but doesn’t know whether he should ask for it. Celegorm has always been affectionate with those he loves, but he isn’t sentimental about sex, and Celebrimbor isn’t certain whether his neediness will be welcome just now. “I didn’t actually ask for your interference,” he says reasonably, then smiles to show he is teasing.

Celegorm laughs and drags him close, solving the indecision neatly. “Oh, yes. You were only minding your own business. I had to twist your arm to get you to accept my help.”

Given permission, Celebrimbor burrows in against him, trying not to seem _too_ desperately hungry for it when Celegorm begins stroking his hair. “I didn’t say I didn’t _accept_ it. I just want the record to show that it isn’t my fault you drew the wrong conclusions.”

Celegorm’s laughter vibrates through him, and he closes his eyes, feeling warm and full of light.

~

When Celebrimbor wakes, he is alone in his bed, the space beside him long cold, but it doesn’t ruffle his deep contentment. Celegorm could hardly stay, not if they want to keep this secret for longer than a night.

Besides, when he stretches, he feels an unexpected tug on his wrist. He cracks one sleepy eye open to see something wrapped loosely around it: the gold-stamped leather tie his uncle uses to bind back his braids. A token, left in lieu of its owner, an apology of sorts for his absence.

Celebrimbor smiles to himself like a satisfied cat, then rolls over, deciding for once to sleep in.

~

 _Bad luck,_ Celebrimbor says to himself, trying to remind himself where this all ends. _Bad luck, bad luck, bad luck._

It’s hard when Celegorm’s hands are in his hair, braiding in beads and shells and feathers he’s collected, telling an uproarious tale about trying to hunt with Maglor when they were young. Celebrimbor’s ribs ache from laughing, and the tension that always sits across his shoulders has not yet made an appearance. It’s been scarce, in fact, since that night that his uncle first tumbled into his bed.

“—and the chipmunk got caught in the slashes on his sleeve—”

“—I’m sure you had _nothing_ to do with that, of course, Uncle—”

“Really, Tyelperinquar, I know there’s no hope for Tyelkormo, but I thought you at least would have the sense not to dress yourself like a savage.” Curufin’s clipped voice cuts across their laughter, making Celebrimbor start guiltily.

“Leave off the boy,” Celegorm says, unperturbed, and goes on braiding. “He’s not attending any formal functions.”

“You’re overstepping.”

Celegorm rolls his eyes. “I know you’ll find this surprising, but I don’t answer to you.”

Curufin is unimpressed. “In matters regarding my son, I think you’ll find you do.”

“No,” Celebrimbor says quietly, “he doesn’t.”

There’s a long, _long_ beat of silence. Celegorm’s hands have stilled, though Celebrimbor can’t see his expression to determine whether he approves or not. He _can_ see his father’s face, which is darkening by slow increments, like a gathering storm.

“I can decide how my hair is arranged, Adar,” Celebrimbor says, still quiet, though mostly to disguise his nerves. “But thank you for your advice.”

No one is actually speaking about his coiffure, of course. 

Curufin meets Celegorm’s eyes over his head, and his glare says _we’ll talk about this later, without the boy_.

Celebrimbor stands up, putting himself in the line of that glare. He didn’t plan to—it just _happened_ , his limbs working without his say-so. He finds himself speaking, too, without much of a notion of what he’s going to say. “Don’t be upset with Uncle Tyelko, please. I take after you in all the important ways. A few feathers aren’t going to change that, and if I haven’t been a disgrace to you so far, I’m not about to start just because I’ve spent a little time learning from him.”

Curufin’s expression is cold now. “If you mean to convince me he hasn’t unduly influenced you, I’m afraid you’re doing the opposite.”

He is either going to absolve himself or ruin everything, forever. “I mean to remind you I’m proud to be your son, and that _you_ are who I’ve always aspired to be, Adar. That hasn’t changed. If you trust my judgment in the forge, trust it outside as well.”

It is rare, so rare, that Curufin allows himself to show surprise. Celebrimbor has almost forgotten what it looks like on his father’s face.

He draws a breath for courage. He wants to ask the question, but he’s not sure whether he’s ready to hear the answer. “Have I disappointed you? Is that why you cannot trust me to speak for myself?”

“ _Tyelperinquar_ ,” Curufin says, and though his tone _is_ dismayed, it does not have the rough edge of reprimand to it. “Of course not.” He stands stiffly—Celegorm would have reached out to touch him, to squeeze his shoulder or catch his hand, but that isn’t Curufin’s way. “You’ve done very well. I only want you to have a seat at the table among the powers of Beleriand, and that requires a certain—”

“I know,” Celebrimbor says softly. “But I can’t have a seat at the table if I can’t speak on my own behalf.”

Curufin studies him for a long time. Then he sighs. “You are the only grandson of Feanor. There are many eyes on you, watching to see how you conduct yourself.”

Celebrimbor nods, earnest. “Believe me, Adar,” he says, “I will always remember it.”

“Good.” Curufin nearly smiles, and Celebrimbor feels alight with the warmth of his father’s approval.

When Curufin leaves, though, he drops back into the chair with shaky legs. Celegorm, who has been uncharacteristically silent—nearly enough so that Celebrimbor could forget he was there—reasserts himself, laying a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

“All right, pup?”

Celebrimbor nods, but he also turns in the chair to hide his face against Celegorm; Celegorm’s arms come around him and hold him there, reassurance and support.

“I’m proud of you, Tyelpe.” The use of his Quenya name is deliberate, and right, in this context. “So is he.”

The sound Celebrimbor makes is involuntary, a kind of hiccuping laugh; Celegorm holds him harder, and his voice is a warm, smiling patter, one that unknots the snarl of emotion behind Celebrimbor’s ribs and makes it easier to breathe again. “Hey, hey, you did good, pup. You did good. Come on, I’ve got you.”

Celebrimbor stays there for a long time, and doesn’t mind that it makes him feel like he’s a child again, clinging to his uncle after a great fright or a skinned knee.

~

Despite his assertions to his father, Celebrimbor is _scrupulously_ careful for some time afterwards not to show too much inclination towards anything that might be blamed on his uncle. At the end of the first day, he removes the braids Celegorm put in and carefully drops the beads and feathers into a jewel-box for safekeeping. He only wears his furs if he’s planning to be out-of-doors (though it means packing away the fine soft fox-fur Celegorm gifted him with, no small sacrifice when Celebrimbor feels so lovely wearing it). He focuses on his work, and does not ride out with Celegorm when he goes hunting again, though this time he is invited.

Celegorm does not seem offended by any of it, which is a relief. When Celebrimbor turns down his offer to ride out together, he merely winks and promises to bring him back something pretty. Well, that and pins him against the door for a long, messy goodbye kiss, but Celebrimbor thinks he would probably still do that even if he _were_ angry.

He’s only gone for a few days this time. When he returns, it’s with a sizable stag; they’ll have venison at table, and he’s carved Celebrimbor a fine antler comb. So fine, in fact, that Celebrimbor doubts even his father could object to it. He begins to fix it into his hair one evening before supper, Celegorm watching from a seat by his fire.

“Careful, one might think I’m working my terrible influence on you again,” Celegorm teases.

Celebrimbor pulls a face at him, then smiles. “No one will believe that I use a comb because of _your_ influence, Uncle.”

Celegorm clutches his chest dramatically. “I give you a gift, and what do I receive in return? An arrow directly to the heart! The ingratitude!”

Celebrimbor knows he should be getting ready for supper, but he draws closer, fingers tiptoeing along the ridge of Celegorm’s shoulder. “Forgive me, you are right. It was very ungrateful of me. How shall I thank you...properly?”

Celegorm catches his hand, dragging lips lightly along the back of it and pausing at the knuckles. “Dangerous territory, boy,” he says, grinning against Celebrimbor’s skin. “I can think of a few ways...but I’m fairly sure I promised your father I wouldn’t corrupt his son.”

“Lucky for you,” Celebrimbor murmurs, easing down onto one knee and then the other, resting his free hand against Celegorm’s thigh, “I was already corrupted before you got to me.”

Celegorm licks his lips, spreads his legs so that Celebrimbor might shift forward to kneel between them. “I’m not sure that’s entirely true,” he teases. “A monster like me, seducing his own nephew…”

Celebrimbor stops short. He knows he’s going to spoil the mood, but—he can’t let it pass. “You’re not a monster.”

Celegorm cocks his head, regarding him with curious amusement. “I’ve been called worse, sweet.”

“You’re not,” Celebrimbor says again, sitting back on his heels. “And I’ll thank you to remember I was the one who did the seducing.”

“True enough,” Celegorm says agreeably, grinning down at him, but it still doesn’t sit right with Celebrimbor.

“Uncle, I mean it. You’re not—I know it doesn’t bother you, what people say, you like to embrace it. But you’re _not_ a monster, or wild and wayward above all else, or a terrible influence.” He props his chin on Celegorm’s knee, a thoughtful frown across his brow. “You’re—you’ve done me so much good, you always have. You’re caring, and loyal, and—”

“Easy, Tyelpe, I was only teasing you.” Celebrimbor almost buys it: the quick ease of the response, the expression of gentle, slightly surprised amusement. He almost misses how Celegorm glances away and swiftly back, the small ways he shifts in the chair.

Almost, but not quite.

“I’m not finished, Uncle.”

There is something wary in Celegorm’s expression now, but he doesn’t interrupt again.

“You’re the one I always went to with my nightmares, you know. Mother would rock me back to sleep, or Father would explain to me why dreams aren’t real and couldn’t really hurt me, but you—you would tell me that you were scarier than any of the monsters I dreamed about, and that I should tell them you were coming for them.” Celebrimbor smiles faintly. “You always like to be the scariest thing in the forest. Or in the city. But you’re not a monster, and _you don’t scare me_.” Here, he tilts his head up to meet Celegorm’s eyes, holding his gaze. “Because I _know_ you, Tyelkormo. I know who you are.”

Celegorm looks away again, but he is listening, his posture tense but angled towards Celebrimbor.

Thus encouraged, Celebrimbor drives onward to his conclusion. “I know who you are, and I love you.”

Celegorm makes a sharp sound through his teeth. His voice is rough as sediment. “Come up here where I can reach you, pup.”

Celebrimbor climbs up into his lap without hesitation, wraps arms around him, lets Celegorm press his face against his neck. They stay like that for some time, warm and close; Celebrimbor nearly wonders if his uncle has fallen asleep, until Celegorm pushes him gently back to his feet.

“Supper,” he says by way of explanation, smiling softly, and this time Celebrimbor does not think his ease is a facade.

“We can still make it,” Celebrimbor answers just as easily. “I just need to finish—” he snags the abandoned comb and fixes it in his hair with more certainty this time, then thinks— _why not?_ He crosses to the chest at the foot of the bed to dig through it.

After all, the way Celegorm smiles when he puts his fox-fur on is more than enough to make up for any concern it may cause his father.

~

Bad luck, thinks Celebrimbor wryly, is having an affair that needs to stay a secret—with a lover who’s never met a risk he wasn’t dying to take. Bad luck is finding out how much the chance of getting caught heats the blood.

He suspects there’s less real danger than it feels like in the moment; Celegorm isn’t stupid, and his senses for when someone is coming are nearly uncanny. But it doesn’t make his pulse race any less when Celegorm pushes him up against the wall in a public corridor, or comes up behind him at his worktable in the forge to kiss his neck.

It keeps him sharp, though. If they’re going to court trouble by fooling around in less-than-private locations, the least he can do is make sure there's no other evidence to endanger them. He begins spending a lot of time analyzing his own behavior—and Celegorm’s, too, when he can observe without being too conspicuous. He pays attention to Curufin also, to when and how he asks them questions, to the things he notices and the things he doesn’t.

It helps him keep things tidy, and well hidden. But something else starts to emerge; a pattern he wasn’t looking for.

Celegorm had told him—well, implied, at least—that Curufin had some dalliance of his own. It was difficult to believe in the first place, and Celebrimbor had honestly forgotten about it anyway, his mind being occupied with far pleasanter things lately. But as he watches his father with the intent of protecting his own secret, he begins to realize that it’s true—and that Curufin has taken none of Celebrimbor’s precautions. It's not surprising: unlike Celebrimbor, he had no reason to think someone as sharply observant as himself would be paying attention.

He always dresses richly and well before the nights when he vanishes. Celebrimbor notices—and tries not to think too hard about—how his father chooses upswept hairstyles that bare his neck for those evenings, but the day after always wears high collars and hair mostly loose over his shoulders. Curufin’s wardrobe for the day after tends to be more tightly laced in general, as if having let himself indulge, he must now rein himself in (another thing Celebrimbor doesn’t like to consider too deeply).

And there’s the forge, also. Notable gems disappear from Curufin’s supplies, though Celebrimbor never sees him make anything with them. He might be trading them for other materials, of course, but Celebrimbor doesn’t think so. There are sketches he puts away in a locked drawer, molds he crumbles as soon as they’re used; he’s making gifts for someone in secret, Celebrimbor thinks, and begins watching the hands and necks of Nargothrond’s elite, looking for his father’s work.

His father’s paramour must be discreet. He doesn’t spot anything for a long time.

When he does, it isn’t the jewelry that gives the game away; it’s only confirmation of what Celebrimbor has realized but cannot quite bring himself to believe.

At one point he feels silly for all this snooping. Celegorm knows, after all, and there is precious little Celegorm would not give to him if he truly wanted it. But when he asks who it is, precisely, that his father is spending all his time with, Celegorm’s face goes serious and thoughtful.

“Leave it, pup. I mean it. You really don’t want to know.” There’s something almost— _disapproving?_ —about his expression, difficult though it is to imagine _Celegorm_ judging someone else’s choice of lover. Especially Curufin, who Celebrimbor cannot imagine choosing anyone his brothers could look down upon, even for a secret affair. “I’m sure it will be over soon enough, anyway. Let your father have his secrets.”

He does actually try to follow his uncle’s advice, which is no doubt given for a good reason—annoying though it is to be kept in the dark when Celegorm could say a single name and end his wondering. But it’s hard to _stop_ noticing things once he’s in the habit.

The difficulty is that most of the people with whom Curufin regularly interacts are beneath him, at least in his own opinion. He is friendly with some of the other smiths—no one approaches his mastery, of course, but maintaining a cordial relationship makes it easier to get things done. He often makes temporary alliances for the sake of directing the political winds of Nargothrond this way or that, persuading people to his cause; at the moment he seems to be agitating for an update to some of the water systems, and so he can often be seen with the various players in that particular game. Celebrimbor watches him with them, and knows that there is no possible way any of them can be his father’s mysterious lover.

That leaves precious little, though, unless Curufin pretends not to know the person outside of their trysts. He clashes regularly with the King, of course, and occasionally puts cousin Artaresto in his place if Artaresto starts it, but—

And then Celebrimbor notices how his father is always the one to start the arguments with Finrod. How some of them are about the real issues he knows Curufin to care about, but most of them are about nothing at all. Curufin likes to win, but with the King he only does so about half the time—Finrod is a match for him in a battle of wits, after all, and that is a rare thing indeed.

 _Would Celegorm disapprove?_ he asks himself, and the answer is— _Valar, yes._

He tries to convince himself it’s impossible, to calm the churning in his gut, but now that he’s hit upon it the pieces fit too well. After all, doesn’t Curufin talk about the King constantly? Oh, to mock him or to rail on his foolish policies or his infuriating way of running things, but he’s still on the subject long after even Celegorm has bored of insulting _our dear cousin_.

Still, Celebrimbor tries to tell himself it’s nonsense, that his father has always hated Finrod. Coming to Nargothrond, having to throw themselves on Finrod’s mercy, was a great blow—one Curufin has always softened by reminding his brother how easily they will be able to fit themselves into the power structure, how well-positioned they will be to win over Nargothrond’s people when Finrod’s blind optimism inevitably puts them in a bad spot. Impossible, for Curufin to involve himself with someone for whom he has such contempt.

Celebrimbor has almost convinced himself, until Gaeril’s wedding.

Gaeril is a member of the King’s council, and a lady of high standing, so of course it falls to the King to preside over the festivities. Everyone is in their finest; even Celegorm has deigned to wear some jewelry of his father’s make, though he says it is more for Celebrimbor’s benefit than because he cares a whit about the couple. (He does look unearthly, so fair he takes Celebrimbor’s breath away, and makes it more than a little difficult to be discreet in his admiration. Still, Celebrimbor _has_ learned about delayed gratification, and he knows perfectly well his uncle won’t be going to his _own_ rooms after the party.)

When the King makes his appearance, he is wearing the Nauglamir as usual, along with an assortment of beautiful necklaces that hang lower, most of which Celebrimbor thinks he has seen before (he notices jewelry, of course, with a professional interest). His rings, likewise, are beautiful but familiar.

His single new piece is, unfortunately, more spectacular than anything save the collar, and Celebrimbor could not miss it if he tried.

It’s not precisely a bracelet—a series of interlocking bracelets, perhaps, an elaborate blooming vine that winds around his forearm from wrist to elbow. Celebrimbor would know the work merely by its design, but just in case he is tempted to stay in denial, every gem he has noticed missing from his father’s stores lately winks out from one of the blooms. It’s spectacular, and perfect for the King, and absolutely unmistakable.

Celebrimbor feels sick. He isn’t even entirely sure why—is it jealousy? Betrayal? Or something simpler, the mere horror of a child finding conclusive evidence that his parent isn’t celibate? As soon as the formal ceremony is over, the oaths given before Eru, he slips out to catch his breath, to take deep lungfuls of air and try to persuade his stomach not to riot.

After a few minutes, once he’s calmed down and the churn in his stomach has subsided to a faint distant nausea, he makes himself examine the knowledge head-on.

It has to be his luck—doesn’t it? Even if Celebrimbor had a glimmer of a chance with the King, and he knows, realistically, that he did not—he never would have pursued it, because it would have been a betrayal of his father. It’s true that Celebrimbor never took up his father’s dislike, but he always respected it, and Celegorm dislikes the King enough for all of them. How is it _not_ a betrayal of Celebrimbor, and Celegorm too, what his father has done? And yet—what is Curufin, if not loyal?

It can only be Celebrimbor’s luck. That his father should do this, that he should choose this—it wouldn’t happen otherwise, he’s sure of it. It’s almost irrelevant that Celebrimbor had hopes in that direction once himself; call it mere gilding on the already carefully crafted portrait of his misfortune. There’s a little jealousy, he’ll admit, but to be honest his yearning over the King has dwindled to nearly nothing these days. It’s hard to think of anyone else when Celegorm is so blindingly beautiful himself, and so much nearer. (Celebrimbor laughs a little ruefully to himself at that. In theory, his luck could be worse—his father could have taken a lover Celebrimbor actually had a chance with—but he supposes he’s outsmarted it in that way, by bedding his father’s brother. Even _his_ misfortune wouldn’t stoop that low.)

While he is sorting all this out, Celegorm comes looking for him—well, of course he does. Even if he didn’t see Celebrimbor having his realization, he knows well enough that Celebrimbor likes these kinds of events. If he’s been missing for longer than it takes to answer the call of nature, it’s probably a bad sign.

“You’ll miss the dancing, pup.”

Celebrimbor turns; his face, no doubt, gives him away.

“Ah.” Celegorm sighs deeply, shakes his head, but there is more sympathy than exasperation there. “I _told_ you to leave it.”

“I tried,” Celebrimbor says softly, and doesn’t resist when Celegorm wraps arms around him, even though they are in a public corridor outside a very well-attended wedding. “I can’t pretend I don’t recognize his work.”

Their heights aren’t right for Celegorm to tuck Celebrimbor’s head beneath his chin, so he settles for stroking his hair instead. “It’s a foolish fling, that’s all. I’m sorry you had to find out.” He considers for a moment, as if deciding whether to say the rest. “Perhaps, in another world, Ingoldo noticed the son before the father. I don’t doubt it would have gone differently.”

Celebrimbor tenses, pulling back to frown at him. “What?”

“It’s all right. I’m not blind, Tyelpe, I know you’ve had eyes for him since you were old enough to think of such things. It’s timing, that’s all. You have plenty to offer.” Celegorm reaches to ruffle Celebrimbor’s hair, but Celebrimbor catches his hand, pressing it between his own palms instead.

“That isn’t why I’m upset, Uncle.” He studies Celegorm’s face, looking for signs that he understands, that he believes. “I don’t wish it was me.” Ah, no, he’s losing him, though it’s the truth. “ _Truly_. I wouldn’t trade that world for this one—” and now Celegorm is frowning with disbelief. Abruptly, Celebrimbor finds his anger, though he knows it’s properly directed at Curufin rather than his uncle. “ _Stop that._ I’m not saying I don’t find him attractive. And don’t think I’m not touched that you would have held me and let me cry over someone else. But it isn’t necessary. The only reason I look at anyone else when you’re in the room is so I don’t give myself away. If I had my pick of another world, it would be one where I don’t have to pretend not to stare when you’re dressed like this, or hide the ways in which I care for you.”

Celegorm’s faint smile is back. “You certainly inherited your father’s silver tongue.”

“My father,” says Celebrimbor, still rather sharp, “is a hypocrite, and I am _angry_ with him. That’s why I’m upset. That he can speak nothing but criticism of the King, that he can expect you and I only to agree, and then turn around and—”

“Hey,” Celegorm interrupts, still gentle. “Hey. I’m not best pleased with him either. But you’re not planning to confront him over it tonight, I wager.”

“No,” Celebrimbor allows, and tries to check the sulky tone that creeps in. “Maybe not ever.”

“Well, that’s your decision to make. But there is a very merry celebration happening just on the other side of those doors, one of the sort I know you enjoy, and I wonder whether you could bring yourself to come back to it.”

Celebrimbor tries a smile, for his uncle’s sake, though it feels forced. “Not the sort that you enjoy, though. Why persuade me?”

Celegorm’s own smile slides sideways into wickedness. It doesn’t, admittedly, ever have far to travel. “Because I haven’t gotten to see you dance yet.”

Damn it, but Celegorm is good at cheering him up, even when he doesn’t want to be cheered. “Oh?” he says lightly. “You like to watch?”

“I’d like to _join_ , but that would raise a few eyebrows.” Celegorm winks at him, and his anger winks out. “Watching is the next best.”

Celebrimbor gives in and laughs, then leans in to kiss him, lingering there until there’s laughter a little too near the doors. They both jump apart, guiltily. “Come on, then. I’ll be sure to put on a show for you.”

“Just as long as your dance partner doesn’t get any ideas.”

“Don’t worry, they all know I’m very boring.” Celebrimbor’s eyes shine with mischief. “Rather hang about with my old uncle than make merry with my peers.”

“Watch yourself, pup,” Celegorm growls, his grin razor-sharp; but then someone does come out, and if they have to mind their words anyway they might as well do it back inside at the party.

~

Later that evening, pressed up hard against the door with Celegorm on his knees before him, Celebrimbor is still thinking about luck.

His thoughts are fractured, admittedly: they go spinning off in every direction when Celegorm does _that thing_ with the tip of his tongue, or swallows him deep. But the thread of them goes something like this:

The bad luck is not gone, and he cannot imagine it will truly ever be. But—he thinks it can be fed, sacrificed to. It can be fooled, or cheated. It belongs to him, but he does not have to belong to it.

 _I will have this,_ he thinks, tightening his hands in Celegorm’s hair, _I will keep this. I will make it give me this._ He is resolute, he is determined, he is—

Celegorm hums, then, and he forgets all about luck for a very long time.


End file.
